


summer pornathon 2

by orphan_account



Series: Summer Pornathon '13 [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Bondage, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Summer Pornathon 2013, picture prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 20:26:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1009706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Are you impatient, Arthur?” Merlin’s lips curve into something slow and sly. Arthur wants to lap at their geometrical impossibility. “Feeling a little tense? Helpless?”</p><p><b>Inspired by :</b> <a href="http://i.imgur.com/cM5FjDD.gif">Gif #5</a><br/><b>Pairing: </b> Merlin/Arthur<br/><b>Warnings: </b> bondage; orgasm denial</p>
            </blockquote>





	summer pornathon 2

**Author's Note:**

> Summer pornathon 2. Kinks: bondage, orgasm denial. My, Merlin, you sly fox.

Merlin looks ethereal, dipped into a play of shadows from the light of the bedside lamp. It’s loving the study of angles that he is, the sharp V of his collarbones softened in a shadowed smudge, the clear-cut architecture of his broad shoulders and wiry upper arms wrapped in a darkened embrace, and the long, slim lines of his splayed legs are a sinuous invitation Arthur can’t take but is _straining_ to. 

Straining to, literally, straining against the rope that ties him to the four-poster bed behind him, in front of which he’s kneeling, prostrating himself before Merlin who’s sitting not two metres away from him in a chair, nonchalant, relaxed, the personification of the languidness Arthur can’t comprehend because he’s speaking another language: bound and fastened to the bed’s rods, knees forced apart, arms forced behind his back. His muscles tremble with the position and his skin burns underneath the ropes. The cock ring around the base of his penis makes him sweat and shake and flush all over. His groin is an agony of unrelieved tightness, his back straight and tensioned like a bow’s string. There’s not an ounce of control left: he’s at Merlin’s total mercy, to be punished or worshipped, and he _loves_ it.

“Are you impatient, Arthur?” Merlin’s lips curve into something slow and sly. Arthur wants to lap at their geometrical impossibility. “Feeling a little tense? Helpless?”

Arthur nods jerkily, yields the illusion of autonomy willingly to Merlin. 

“Mmmh, and look at how helpless you are,” Merlin murmurs, lids fluttering shut as his eyes slide over the canvas of surrender that is Arthur’s tormented body. “All flushed and tense for me. Do you know your mouth looks like blood, this way? When you bite your lips, make them all swollen and sore? So lovely, so pretty.” 

And like the puppet being played by the puppeteer, Arthur’s tongue slides over his raw-bitten lower lip when Merlin stares at his mouth, and he tastes the sweet copper of blood with the sting of pain. He laps over it repeatedly, greedy for something because he’s hungry and so _empty_.

“Poor love.” Merlin hums under his breath, the sound carrying straight over to Arthur’s cock, which twitches, the head flushed a dark purple, engorged, throbbing with pent-up blood. “Do you want some relief?”

The offer is a tease, Merlin trying to break down Arthur’s control entirely, knowing how Arthur needs it, wants it. Wants something to distract him from the torture of his cock, wants something in his mouth. He watches, single-minded, as Merlin’s large hand wanders down the flat of his bare chest and belly, stopping at his crotch. He swallows, hard, as Merlin’s fingers, long and thin, graze along the slope of his cock lying thick and long under the denim. 

“Like this, perhaps?” Merlin says, low, rough, leaves his crotch by pressing the heel of his palm against it a last time before returning to it, popping the button and dragging the zipper down—and, oh, _fuck_. 

He’s bare underneath.

“You’d need a hand, wouldn’t you?” Merlin continues his infernal teasing and draws out his cock from the denim, cupping his balls, letting them brush carefully against the teeth of the zipper. He spits into his palm and smoothes his hand up his thin, long cock in a slow stroke. The curls of his pubic hair are dark against the pale of his skin. Arthur wants to draw it between his lips and suck, taste Merlin’s pre-come off it. “Touching you? Jerking you off?”

Arthur groans in the back of his throat, presses his body forward against the rope, body restricted with the fabric cutting into his skin. Still he leans forward, forward, staring at the lovely cock he wants, wants, wants.

“Say it,” Merlin hisses, the slick sounds of his steady jerking interrupted by his panting, laboured, heavy. “Beg me for it.”

When Arthur does, it’s not what Merlin expects.

“Your cock,” Arthur mumbles, feverish. “Want your cock. Please.”

And Merlin shows him mercy for the first time that night—stands up on wobbly legs, jeans riding low on his thighs, peeled back like gift wrap revealing Arthur’s price, the beauty of his cock, which he feeds into Arthur’s waiting mouth—pushes into Arthur’s empty, aching throat, fucks his face fast and hard and rough like Arthur needs him to, wants him to, uses him like the cockslut he is.


End file.
